


Even In Another Time

by EnduringParadox



Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Merpeople, Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Diarmute Week, Fluff, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Romance, Smut, Violence, smut in later chapters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:27:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25380853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnduringParadox/pseuds/EnduringParadox
Summary: For Diarmute AU Week. 7 prompts, 7 different fics.But in each and every one, Diarmuid and the Mute are very much in love (and always manage to get together).
Relationships: Brother Diarmuid/The Mute
Comments: 43
Kudos: 60





	1. Reflections on Razor Clams - Soulmate AU

**Author's Note:**

> Soulmate AU.
> 
> If you really concentrate you can hear your soulmate's thoughts. David's pretty sure his soulmate is too chatty to hear him, but that's okay. But then he loses his ability quiet his mind and focus and can't hear the man at all.

With every top seller book list there was always a new self-help book about how to learn to listen for your soulmate’s thoughts.

They’re always there, so while it was difficult if you could manage to clear your mind and concentrate, really _focus_ behind the noise and turn off the low thrum of the night, the chirp of crickets, the croak of frogs and the rustle of the grass in the warm summer breeze, then you could find the voice of your one true love.

Or so this author assured. David wasn’t sure how that would work, as he currently lived in an arid desert with no rustling grass and no croaking frogs. Some crickets, though.

There weren’t a wide variety of books to choose from in their little mobile library in the middle of a war torn desert, but David had read just about everything. There was the well-worn copy of _Jurassic Park_ he’d devoured twice over, the lucky week when they’d gotten a collection Mary Oliver poems, he’d suffered through _Julie and Julia_ , and now, at the bottom of the proverbial barrel, David was skimming books that advertised sure-fire ways to get into the right headspace to hear your soulmate’s thoughts.

Many people couldn’t. It was just a tough thing to do. David wasn’t ashamed to admit he was curious about what his soulmate was up to, how he was feeling, what he was like. Though he couldn’t truthfully say he wanted the man to hear his own thoughts. Not when they were currently mainly made up of curses and swears and heartfelt promises to drown various superior officers in the latrines as soon as he got the chance. But, well, it couldn’t hurt to give it a shot, this—sitting in pretzel position and clearing his mind, readying it for the thoughts of his true love.

* * *

Later that night, David tried out his own variation of meditation. He laid back on his cot and listened to himself breathe in and out and how it melded with the snores and talk of the other men, the wind howling outside, the dust and sand scattering against the fabric of the tent. The sounds of his surroundings. And somewhere in there, waiting, were the thoughts of his soulmate.

They first came to him like the static from a mistuned radio channel, faint and unintelligible. But it was undoubtedly a train of thoughts humming in his mind.

Thrilled, David attempted to grab hold of a sentence, a word, to sift through and find something. He grasped at one familiar sound and clung to it until another became clear. Then it was as if a dam burst, and a river of thoughts flowed through his mind.

_Who was the first person to ever try a razor clam? What were they thinking about? Did it look appetizing? Were they desperate? Perhaps they saw another animal eat it and decided to try it for themselves. What is a natural predator of the razor clam—I’ll look it up later. Otters, perhaps? Maybe they crack them open on their little rocks. So cute. Is it hawks or eagles that drop their prey from a great height to smash them open? Turtles—wasn’t it turtles? Drop the shell on the rock and pick it clean. Who was the philosopher that died that way—philosopher? If he was an Ancient Greek chances are he was a philosopher but—ah, well. Look that up later too. Hope I remember. Should really start writing things down. Now what was the other thing I had to look up? Shoot. I always do this. Sidetracked again. Poor Dad, I must’ve been a terror when I was younger—RAZOR CLAMS!_

David burst out laughing. It drowned out his soulmate’s sweet, rambling thoughts but he couldn’t help it. What the fuck? All the books and movies, people saying the very first time they heard their soulmate’s thoughts they were thinking of them, or about love, or their dreams for the future, and here not only does David actually have a soulmate (he’d honestly doubted, after all these years), but it turned out the guy thought a mile a minute.

Razor clams, fucking Hell. Still chuckling, he waved off a few of the men who were looking at him, alarmed at the strange noise of actual happiness emitting from his throat.

But he looked it up later, curious. Humans, mainly, but some types of gull and something called a Eurasian oystercatcher which was just one of the fucking stupidest looking birds he’d ever seen. Like someone tried to sculpt a duck but confused it with a pelican and a toucan halfway through.

He smiled again. Maybe if his soulmate’s own thoughts quieted down, he’d hear David thinking about him. _Eurasian oystercatcher_ , he thought and tried to think as firmly as possible, _I’ll save you the time. Gulls and some stupid fucking things called Eurasian oystercatchers_.

* * *

David hated whoever the fuck this Raymond was—this motherfucker, this goddamn asshole who his soulmate was dating. All his thoughts had turned to Raymond, a chaotic mixture of excitement and trepidation and uncertainty. David had figured out a rough time difference between he and his soulmate solely due to the fact that lately every fucking time he was trying to sleep against a backdrop of mortars and Ricci’s atrocious guitar playing, _Raymond_ was out taking his soulmate on a lunch date and leaving him flustered.

_He’s handsome_ , floated a thought, bashful, _He kisses well. Maybe—_ and David covered his face with his hands and groaned.

Someone called, “Yo, LT, stop jerking off when Ricci’s playing!”

“Fuck you and fuck Ricci!” David snarled as laughter broke out among the platoon. He sat up and pointed at Ricci, who only gave him a shit-eating grin. “Learn something besides ‘Sweet Home Alabama’ you fucking hack, your grandparents are from Italy!”

Ricci strummed the guitar’s strings. “Alright, LT’s got a request for ‘something-else-besides-Sweet-Home-Alabama.’ Here’s to you, LT! Listen close and give your dick a rest!” The men sent up a raucous cheer.

And then he started to play “Achey Breaky Heart,” the little asshole.

David rolled over on his cot, teeth grinding.

What good did it do to hear his soulmate’s thoughts if the guy couldn’t hear his? Or maybe—David swallowed—maybe he’d already heard David’s thoughts and wasn’t bothered either way.

But then a few days later his mind is bombarded, a flurry of thoughts bouncing around his skull.

_Good riddance. My soulmate wouldn’t treat me like that. It was nice of Rua to dump paint in his car. How does Rua do these things without getting caught? Rua can be very scary. Has Rua been to jail before? If I can’t hear my soulmate yet how will I meet him? How am I supposed to tell he’s my soulmate? Will he have heard my own thoughts? Need to get to the library for those books. Meditation’s supposed to help, but that new book everyone was talking about at work said maybe a different diet? Superfoods to unlock your soulmate. Wonder what a Goji berry tastes like. Why are so many superfoods berries? The berry industry is thriving. I hope he likes me. Can your soulmate not like you? That defeats the purpose of a soulmate. I really hope he likes me._

David thought, fiercely, _I love you, I fucking love you_. If he could have his soulmate hear anything it’d be that, followed closely by his full name and address. He adored this man, whoever he was, who was so kind and so curious and whose thoughts made David smile and laugh. He loved the chatter, God, he loved it. It was something to look forward to after a long day of patrol and pointless bullshit, a way to bide the time when they had to hurry up and wait for hours and hours and hours. All David had to do was sit and close his eyes and breathe and then there came that stream of consciousness, wrapping around him like a warm blanket. Curiosity and puzzlement and wonder and kindness, a babbling brook of thoughts running through his head.

* * *

He’d gotten hurt. Pretty badly, all things considered. Nearly blown to Hell, Ricci had said, crying over his hospital bed.

David’s ashamed to admit that he hadn’t bothered to listen to his soulmate at all during his recovery. The fuzziness of the morphine, the lingering pain, the physical therapy, the process of getting discharged—it wasn’t as though he’d forgotten about the man, it was just that there’d been so much to think about.

And then when he’d gotten home and tried to listen he found that he couldn’t focus anymore. Couldn’t get into that mindset.

He’d only temporarily lost the ability to hear his soulmate, not the man himself. His therapist frequently told him this, and David’s supposed to remind himself of this change in his life with more gentleness than he actually does.

Jesus fuck, David had thought that the worst thing he’d ever have to deal with was his soulmate dating other men, listening to him ponder over their attractiveness and their ideals and if he wanted to have a future with them, a family.

But now he knew that this was also a kind of Hell, to have heard his soulmate’s thoughts and then to be too tense, too anxious, too addled by his experiences in war to get into that headspace again and listen to his love’s day, to fall asleep to that gentle ramble.

God, would David even be worth anything to him now? More quiet and antisocial than ever, jumping at loud noises, exhausted by a trip to the store. David half-hoped that his soulmate never heard his thoughts, full of self-pity and shame and anger—probably be best if he never found him at all.

But still, every night David still thought, for as long as he could until sleep took hold of him, _I hope you’re well, I hope you’re happy._ And every once in a while, when he was feeling content, he added, _Just wait for me. I’m getting better. I’m sorry I can’t hear you anymore, but I’m waiting for you._

* * *

An apartment warming party for some friends of friends of friends was not how David wanted to spend his time, but he had a feeling he would be wrangled into it either way.

“Cathal invited me,” his friend said. Cathal, that name sounded familiar—how else did he know a Cathal?

David asked, “Well, who’s got the new place?”

“A coworker of Cathal’s, Rua, and his own friend—uh, Donnell? I think?”

David’s heart skipped a beat. Rua, he knew a Rua. His soulmate’s friend that may-or-may-not have been to prison but who, from what David had learned, had definitely done enough property damage to be there. Could that be the same man? If so, he could lead him to his soulmate. He’d ask—something, something only the he and David would know, something his soulmate had thought that wouldn’t be embarrassing to share but would be specific enough to let him know that yes, yes, it was David he was meant to be with.

“This Rua, what’s he like?”

“Kind of intimidating for such a small guy to be honest. He fucked up this guy’s car once because he got handsy with one of his friends.”

“Paint?”

“Yeah, you hear about that?”

_Straight from the friend_ , David thought, heart racing. “I’ll show up,” he said.

* * *

It was a good place to rent. Two stories, decent sized kitchen, a little porch, a number of potted plants on the steps and the windowsills. David suddenly felt cheered by one of his apartment-warming gifts: another small houseplant in a painted ceramic pot, held safely to his chest.

David found Cathal and immediately strong-armed him into introducing him to Rua, a lean, wiry man who had the look of someone who would be underestimated in fight just once and then never again.

Cathal cleared his throat, an uncertain expression on his face. “Um, Rua, this is, uh, David?” David nodded and the other man looked relieved. “Yeah, and David, this is Rua. Where’s Diarmuid?”

Rua jerked his head in the direction of the kitchen. “Making drinks. Nice to meet you, David.”

“Brought wine,” David grunted, handing him the bottle in lieu of a handshake. “And a plant.”

Rua didn’t even blink. “Cool, cool. I’ll take the alcohol and Diarmuid will love another houseplant to pamper. Thanks.”

“Who do I get to pamper?” A gorgeous young man with a mess of curly brown hair and big, brown doe eyes exited the kitchen carrying a glass pitcher of something undoubtedly alcoholic; it was bright blue, the bottom lined with rock candy, with slices of lemon and red Swedish fish floating around in the liquid. He noticed David staring at the mixture and smiled. “Oh! It’s fish bowl punch! There’s vodka and coconut rum and pineapple juice and this blue liquor—sorry, _liqueur,_ I’m not sure of the difference, really, I should look it up—and the recipe said to use Nerds as the little rocks but I thought the color might seep out and muddy the water a bit? So I used rock candy instead. I was a bit worried about the Swedish fish, too, but they’re gummy and there’s really no substitute, but I didn’t need to be concerned about that at all because look how cute it is!”

Yeah, that was—that had to be him. That was definitely his soulmate. He thought exactly as he spoke but his voice was better, a thousand times better, because it was just so cheerful and earnest and he could finally _see him_ , after all this time.

“It is. Cute,” David stammered, “It looks great. You did a great job.”

Diarmuid eyes widened. He gave him a curious little smile and handed Cathal the pitcher. “I don’t think we’ve met before,” he said.

Rua, who had somehow popped the cork out of the wine bottle with a pocketknife and his teeth, took a swig of the wine and said, “That’s David. Friend of Cathal’s.”

“Friend of a friend of Cathal’s,” amended Cathal as the pitcher’s contents sloshed about in his hands.

“What he said,” Rua replied, “He brought you a plant.”

If he’d had known he was going to meet his soulmate at the apartment David would’ve brought a better gift. As it stood, he offered the little flowerpot to Diarmuid who took it with both hands and looked at it like it held the secrets of the universe. “Just—just something for the place.”

Diarmuid stared at him. “I think it needs some water. Do you—want to come to the kitchen with me?”

David was acutely aware of Rua and Cathal watching them with confusion. He asked, “To...water the plant?”

“Yes.”

Jesus Christ, Diarmuid’s eyes were like pools of honey. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

* * *

The kitchen chairs were built for people more Diarmuid and Rua’s size than David’s. He sat, tense, worried about how he could tell the beautiful man humming at the plant that he was fairly certain he was his soulmate and equally concerned that if he fully relaxed on the chair it’d snap and send him tumbling ass-first to the floor.

But then Diarmuid brought up the topic. “Can you hear your soulmate?” Diarmuid asked.

_Not anymore_ , Daivd thought. “No.”

“I just—only really started hearing mine. I read a lot self-help books, watched the videos and everything, but it didn’t work when I tried to imitate other people. We’re not all hearing the same voice in the same context. And—and for me it wasn’t so much tuning _out_ everything else,” Diarmuid explained, “It’s more about—tuning _in_ , I guess. Because they’re already there, right? But it’s like, you need the noise to sift through so that you can find them. I sit and listen and there’s the neighbor’s radio playing on their windowsill, there’s clock ticking on the wall, there’s my breath, there’s my heart beating, and if I know all that then I know when I’ve found his thoughts, his voice.”

“His voice?”

“Well, more like—the rhythm of it, his cadence. I don’t know how his voice will sound exactly but I think I have an idea about how he’ll _speak_ , because it’s been his thoughts in my ears for these past few months. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah.”

Diarmuid said, very slowly and very carefully, “I’m pretty sure I know who he is. I’m pretty sure I’ve heard him. It’s a bit difficult to tell though, because right now I can’t get much more than two words out of him.”

David stared at him. Diarmuid gave him an expectant look.

How could they test this? There’s no way David could focus enough now to hear his soulmate’s thoughts—his heart was in his throat and his brain gone on holiday in the face of Diarmuid’s hopeful expression. There’d been the woman who’d blogged her responses to her soulmate’s thoughts until they’d found one another. And a man who, upon finding his soulmate’s thoughts to be Danish, studied the language, saved money for a trip to Denmark, and had found his soulmate after only three hours in Copenhagen when he asked a woman at a bar if she recognized the descriptions in his notes, which turned out to be her own musings on the development around her childhood home. They’d made a movie out of that one.

All romantic, all amazing. Something to tell the future generations of their family. And all David could think to say was, “I know a lot about razor clams.”

Which was just—Jesus Christ.

But Diarmuid smiled like a sunrise, bright and blushing, and rushed to embrace him.

_This,_ David thought, dazed, with Diarmuid’s lips on his, _I was waiting for this. This is nice_.

“I like kissing you, too,” Diarmuid said. He laughed at David’s incredulous look. “Your face is expressive, you know that?”

“Thought you might’ve be mind-reading me right now,” David mumbled.

“Of course not. It’s hard to think straight with you finally in front of me.” He preened as Diarmuid peppered kisses along his jaw line and smoothed down his shirt collar. “So, tell me about razor clams.”

God, it didn’t matter if he couldn’t hear Diarmuid’s thoughts when he was alone—not when he had Diarmuid right here. When David smiled Diarmuid kissed the corners of his lips. “Well,” he said, “There’s this bird called the Eurasian oystercatcher—“

Diarmuid burst into laugher as David hugged him tight. They sat there and talked and kissed and laughed and kissed some more, and when David heard, giddy and longing in the back of his mind, _I’ve finally found you,_ he honestly wasn’t sure if it was Diarmuid’s thought or his own.

Had to be the both of them, he decided, gazing into his soulmate’s love struck eyes and pulling him in for another kiss.


	2. Blood and Family - Mob AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mob AU. 
> 
> Mob bosses David and Ciaran make a deal to get rid of the de Merville family. They've been a thorn in David's side for far too long, and Raymond's gone and made the mistake of beating Ciaran's only son, Diarmuid.
> 
> David finds himself besotted with the young man. After he takes care of the de Mervilles, his relationship with Diarmuid quickly becomes serious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mentions of domestic abuse, a good deal of violence in response to said abuse, and a very brief mention of some sexual activities.
> 
> Most of the mob stuff is in the first part of the fic. Near the end it gets quite fluffy. I did my best with the prompt! Hope you enjoy reading!

It was the very first time he’d ever directly dealt with Ciaran, but David quickly figured out why the man was so well respected. He had invited him to his home, sat him down in his living room, brought him scotch and a goddamn charcuterie board, and notably didn’t stare at the large scar on David’s neck, which was all that remained of a failed attempted to slit his throat save the odd rasp to his voice. Instead the older man watched him while he popped a bit of cheese on a wheat cracker along with a couple of red grapes into his mouth.

“My son put that together,” Ciaran said, as David carefully brushed a few crumbs into a napkin. “He’s got a talent for that kind of thing.”

Confused, David looked at the plating of bunches of grapes, halved figs, hard and soft cheeses, various crackers, slices of prosciutto, and said, “It’s good. Very nice.”

The older man snorted. “It really is. I know more about cheese and fruit pairings than I thought I ever would. Diarmuid’s interested in so many different things. Not just putting together hors d’oeuvres for my associates. There’s five dogs somewhere around here that he’s gotten from the animal shelter—elderly ones. He said that they’ve been waiting for a good home for so long, and we had room. So now they’ve taken over the house. And he loves going to see films. Good or bad. Either way he’ll tell me about what he liked or what he didn’t, what he thinks could’ve been done better.”

He paused. David wasn’t sure what kind of response he wanted, but he offered, “You two sound close.”

“I love that boy more than life itself,” the man growled. Then he paused, took a deep breath, ran a hand through his graying hair, adjusted his tie, and said, “I heard you have trouble with the de Mervilles.”

The change in topic surprised him. “I do.” The Baron and his bastard of a son Raymond had been a pain in his ass for some time, encroaching on his territory, their little foot soldiers hassling David’s men and shaking down the businesses he protected.

Ciaran cleared his throat. “If you make a move against them, I’ll support it. I’ll give you enough men to burn down every one of their rackets and enough clubs to break the teeth of everyone who supports them. Take whatever you want. The operations, the shop fronts—Hell, pick their bodies clean of their watches and jewelry if you’d like.”

“What would you get out of this?” David asked, suspicious. It was too good a deal. There had to be some ulterior motive.

And there was. “Raymond was— _dating_ my son. I tolerated it. The Baron encouraged it. Hinted at a kind of—dynastic marriage, even.” The older man sneered. “Well, his little prince showed his true colors soon enough. An argument—and Diarmuid came home with a black eye and a split lip. He _beat_ my son. I wanted that little ratfuck’s hand. The Baron refused, told me it was just a lover’s quarrel. I won’t just accept that. That bastard of his hurt my boy and he won’t dole out a punishment? I’ll tear apart every single thing he’s ever worked for, including his legacy. Sift through the ashes, take whatever you want, but I want them _dead_.”

Now, as Ciaran’s face contorted from paternal amiability to that of a snarling lion, he also realized why Ciaran was so feared. David believed him, absolutely and utterly. He held out his hand for Ciaran to shake. “It’s a deal?”

The beast transformed. A slow smile spread across the man’s face. “Of course. I’ll leave the details of the operation up to you. I heard you’re good at that sort of thing.”

Ciaran insisted that he at least stay to finish his glass of scotch. David brought it to his lips and nearly choked as a sweet voice called out, “Daddy, do you know where I put the cookbook with the healthier desserts? I want to try that blackened honey peach and pavlova—oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know you were still in a meeting.”

The young man in the doorway was the most gorgeous creature that that David had ever seen. Face lightly scattered with freckles, pretty pink lips, curly brown hair, and dark brown eyes. He hid one side of his face with his hand, but between the spaces of his fingers and underneath the blush David could see where his bruise had gone a sickly yellow-gray.

“It’s alright, my dear, we were just enjoying a drink together.” He paused and David winced, expecting the usual nickname: _the Mute_. But Ciaran surprised him again. “He’s an associate of mine. Diarmuid, meet David. David, this is my son, Diarmuid.”

When Diarmuid shook his hand he still shyly hid the bruised side of his face. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir,” he said, softly.

David frowned. Raymond de Merville was a power-hungry, greedy bastard, but to hit the head of the Irish mob’s only son was insanely stupid. To have struck Diarmuid at all was unfathomable, unconscionable. The young man looked like a Renaissance sculpture brought to life. “Pleasure’s mine,” he said. Then he turned back to Ciaran. “I’ll make him regret the day he was born.”

* * *

Raymond de Merville had some kind of ancient medieval torture device he liked to use on people. David’s men had told him he liked to brag that it’d been passed down his family for generations, but that, in reality, he’d just bought it at some auction.

Fucking prick.

It had small, sharp, with little claws that punctured the skin and held fast to whatever it found so that when de Merville yanked it out a ribbon of entrails followed. And the man had always looked so satisfied, they said, as he watched his victims’ faces contort in agony and the life slowly leave their eyes.

Well, there was no confidence or satisfaction in de Merville’s eyes now. Only angry, desperate fear as David paced around a now ruined bedroom, impassively inspecting the instrument.

“You fucking asshole, you could at least have the decency to make this a fair fight! Some big man you are—beating a guy with his arms tied behind his back.”

David stared at him as wriggled on the ground like an insect. Did he think David was going to kill him for sport? For an achievement? The fucking _ego_ on him. This was nothing but pest control. “Some big man you are,” he replied, “Beating your boyfriend who’s half your size.”

The man’s bloody face went slack with shock and then red with rage. “Fuck, did Ciaran put you up to this? What the _fuck_! It was just an argument—I didn’t even hit Diarmuid that hard—“

The image of Diarmuid’s shy, gentle expression and his still bruised eye flashed through David’s mind. “Hit him hard enough to split his lip. To give him a black eye. Was still healing when Ciaran and I talked about how I was going to kill you.”

de Merville might have narrowed his eyes, or maybe they were just swelling shut, but either way he spat blood at David’s feet and said, “Christ, when my father hears about this—“

“He won’t.” The Baron’s body currently lay a broken, jumbled mess at the bottom of his office building. David had thrown him, battered and pleading, over the railing and watched as he fell seven stories to the marble floor. They would find him in the morning, a very public message of a change in leadership. “You and your dad, you bit the wrong hand this time.”

He’d been clamoring for the de Mervilles’ blood for some time now, but the old timers had dismissed it as a petty, grumbling rivalry. Ciaran, regal with his dark brows and salt-and-pepper beard and stern, fatherly demeanor had given David’s dispute with the de Mervilles legitimacy. Once the older man had publicly denounced the Baron and backed David it seemed as though all the support for the family had evaporated.

David watched the hope of escape leave Raymond’s eyes with a certain amount of satisfaction, but he had no interest in prolonged torture so he made the man’s end quick enough when he shoved the device straight through the eye socket until he felt the claw hit bone. The younger de Merville struggled and then seized and then slumped to the floor, dead.

Ciaran had encouraged him to take what he wanted from the house as part of their deal, but what David wanted was to send a message. He left de Merville’s bloody carcass on the floor, the instrument sticking out of his eye, and torched the place. Throughout the rest of the city his men were dealing with stubborn allies and associates. A clean sweep. An end of an empire.

It was a nice neighborhood; the fire department raced into the street almost as soon as he’d tuned his car’s radio. But this wasn’t David’s first arson. The blaze spread throughout the house like a stain and the only thing that escaped was the smoke and the flames, grasping at the night.

* * *

It was Diarmuid that greeted him when he arrived at Ciaran’s house. He set a small plate of fig and goat cheese crostini drizzled with honey onto the coffee table and poured David a glass of scotch.

David swirled the two ice cubes around his glass, drained it, set it on the coaster, and meant to say, “Your eye’s healed up nicely.”

What he actually said was, “You look very beautiful tonight.”

Diarmuid blushed and gave a soft little laugh. “Oh! I—thank you, sir.”

“Call me David. If you want.”

The younger man bit his lip. “Um, I wanted to also thank you for—for dealing with Raymond. I know you had your own reasons, but, well. So, thank you, David.” He reached for the empty glass, smiling.

On impulse David brushed the glass to the side. He took Diarmuid’s hand in his and watched as his eyes went wide and his face reddened further. “Wasn’t anything you got to thank me for. He shouldn’t have hit you. He had no right.”

“Thank you, David,” Diarmuid said again.

For once David couldn’t stop talking. “He was a fucking moron. He had _you_ and he—you’re so beautiful. And sweet. Should’ve broken every single one of his fingers for touching you. For hurting you.”

When Diarmuid let go of his hand he thought he’d fucked up, made him uncomfortable or insulted him somehow. An apology was already hoarse and half-formed in his throat when the younger man leaned down and pressed their lips together, shy and soft and if David hadn’t been completely head-over-heels for Diarmuid before he sure as Hell was now.

Diarmuid murmured, “Thank you, David,” in a voice so smooth and low that it made David shiver with want.

Ciaran’s heavy footsteps heralded the end of their time together for the evening, but Diarmuid poured him another glass of scotch and smiled at him behind his father’s back before he left the room.

The old mob boss shook his hand. “Well done, lad,” he said, “You ought to be proud of yourself.”

David though of Diarmuid’s freckles almost backlit by his blush, his gentle, dark eyes, and his warm smile. He replied, “I am. Very much so.”

* * *

All their time together was secret and stolen but overwhelmingly satisfying. Diarmuid’s room in Ciaran’s home was out of the question and people would talk if the young man was seen going to and from David’s apartment, so they relied on reserved hotel rooms.

David hated that aspect of it, having to sneak around like Diarmuid was some sort of dirty secret, but the both of them were uncertain as to how Ciaran would react to their relationship. Not when Diarmuid’s last boyfriend had hit him hard enough to blacken his eye and split his lip, and not when David had been the one to violently murder said last boyfriend. Even if it had been with Ciaran’s approval.

As he watched Diarmuid doze in the bed after another session of lovemaking, his pale skin dotted with freckles and a lovely contrast with the royal purple silk sheets, David was certain that he hadn’t hurt de Merville enough before shoving that claw straight to the back of his skull. He marveled at the fact that Raymond had gotten an absolute treasure of a lover—kind, so funny and empathetic, so gorgeous—and had actually raised a hand against him. All Diarmuid ever wanted was affection. To be kissed and held tightly and sweetly spoken to.

He deserved all that and more, and David would give it to him. The hotel’s penthouse suite was a temporary start. Diarmuid loved the view of the city at night, the giant bed of silk sheets covered in pillows, and the raspberry wine with flourless chocolate cake. He seemed to especially love it when David licked the taste of it from his lips before moving down to tongue at his pink little hole and work him open with his fingers.

A small sniffle jarred him out of his thoughts. Diarmuid was nestled against the blankets, trying and failing to hide his tears.

David’s heart stopped. He put a tentative hand on Diarmuid’s hip. “What’s wrong, baby? Was I too rough? Did I hurt you?”

Diarmuid shook his head. “No, it’s just—I know I have to leave soon. I love you and this is nice but I _hate_ that I can’t be with you all the time.”

Pressing a kiss to Diarmuid’s shoulder, David whispered, “You love me?”

The way his lover’s nose wrinkled when he frowned was adorable. “Of course I do. I love you _so much_.”

“I love you, too.” Buoyed by Diarmuid’s smile, David continued, “If you want this all the time, then I’ll talk to your dad.”

“But—David, he might be angry.”

“Maybe at first,” David admitted, “But then I’ll tell him that he’ll get to walk you down the aisle. That’ll make him happy, won’t it?”

The look of slow realization that crossed Diarmuid’s face was priceless. He said, dazed, “Walk me down the...? David, do you really mean that?”

David gathered Diarmuid into his lap so that the younger man had his arms wrapped around his neck and his legs around his waist. “If you want me, you got me. But I want to marry you. So that everyone knows that I’m yours and you’re mine.”

“Yes! Yes, that’s what I—Oh, David, of course I want to marry you!”

“Yeah?” David asked, not quite believing this gift life had given him, “You want to be my husband?” At Diarmuid’s tearful, frantic nod, he said, “Then I’ll talk to your dad, sweetheart, and then we’ll get you a ring.”

* * *

David took his chance after another meeting with Ciaran and the other local bosses. As the men shuffled out of the living room, David cleared his throat. “Need a moment of your time, sir,” he said.

Ciaran gave him a questioning look. “Something you couldn’t bring up at the meeting?”

“No. It’s not business. Personal matter. Regarding you and me.”

“Let’s have it, then,” Ciaran said, “What’s this urgent personal matter?”

Better to just rip the proverbial Band-Aid off. “I want to marry your son.”

The older man stared at him. “W-what?”

“I want to marry Diarmuid,” David helpfully clarified.

“You want—Diarmuid—my boy—you want to marry _my_ boy?”

“Yes.”

Ciaran appeared to be absolutely flabbergasted. He ran a hand through his hair, brows furrowed, and glanced sideways at David. “You—you’re asking for my permission, then, is that it?”

David shook his head. “I’m asking for your blessing. But I’ll marry Diarmuid whether I have your permission or not.”

An incredulous look worked its way onto Ciaran’s face. “You’ve got a set of stones on you, lad, I’ll give you that. Maybe they should’ve tried to cut that tongue out, too, when they slit your throat.”

David said nothing. Ciaran paced around the room. “So, how long have the two of you been— _interested_ in one another?”

He had always been interested; David had wanted Diarmuid from the second he saw him. But there had been one moment when he knew for sure there’d never be anyone else in his life. “After I killed the de Mervilles and came back here. Diarmuid and I. We talked. And we kissed.”  
The way Ciaran’s eyes rolled skyward along with his frown indicated that he was doing some extremely fast mental math. “That was over _six months ago_. You’ve been running around with my son behind my back for _more than_ _six months_?”

“Yes.” Then, quietly, “We thought you’d be angry.”

“ _I’m angry now_! Six months! And just after—just after Raymond—“ The older man took a breath and then took a long drink of scotch. “You know, he asked my permission to marry Diarmuid as well.”

David said, “I didn’t know that.” The very thought of another man, let alone _Raymond de Merville_ as Diarmuid’s husband—it got his blood pressure rising, raised his hackles. If he had the power to dig up the man’s burnt corpse and bring him back to life just so that he could beat him to death again, David would’ve done it in a heartbeat.

“I don’t think Diarmuid was aware of his intentions. But I said ‘ _no_.’ I suspect that might’ve been what the argument was about—when he hit Diarmuid.” He leveled a glare at David. “A dynastic marriage, that’s what the de Mervilles wanted. My son’s inheritance. What do _you_ want, David?”

That was an easy question to answer. “I want this official. To wake up with Diarmuid next to me. Every day. And to fall asleep next to him every night. And—I want to know whatever it is that he wants. So that I can give it to him.”

Ciaran regarded him for a long, long moment as David’s heart beat fast and hard enough to bruise his ribs. Finally, the man turned to the doorway and said, “Diarmuid, get out here!”

A little “ _eep!_ ” of surprise sounded from behind the door and then Diarmuid appeared, blushing and sheepish. “How’d you know I was there, daddy?”

His father scoffed. “You think I don’t know when you’re eavesdropping? Now, tell me, do you love this man?”

Diarmuid looked at David and smiled. “Yes, I love him.”

“You want to marry him?”

“Oh, yes, more than anything!” Diarmuid said, eyes bright, hands clasped together as if in prayer.

Ciaran sighed. “I’m not pleased with how you’ve hidden this from me, dear.” But as David’s heart dropped and Diarmuid’s lip quivered he said, “But what’s done is done, I suppose. See your fiancé out. We’ll pick this up tomorrow and discuss wedding plans.”

Diarmuid screamed with joy, laughing and kissing his father’s salt-and-pepper beard, bouncing with excitement. David shook Ciaran’s hand—the older man seemed to squeeze his fingers slightly harder than usual—but his future father-in-law gave him a slight smile and a nod.

Somehow he and Diarmuid managed to get to the front porch while trading happy, desperate kisses with every other step. With a gentle kiss to his jaw, his fiancé murmured, “You’ll come back tomorrow—maybe we could have brunch.”

“I’d like that,” David said squeezing Diarmuid’s hips.

“And—could we maybe do an engagement announcement? Nothing too fancy, just a nice photo of us, I think.”

“Yeah, baby, whatever you want.” His hands roamed down further.

An impish little grin graced Diarmuid’s face. “And I can finally show you my room—“

David groaned and nibbled at the younger man’s lower lip. “Fuck, _Diarmuid_. Can’t wait till I get you all to myself. Want you with me forever.”

“Soon,” Diarmuid assured him, “Tomorrow and then—and then soon.”

He laughed. “Soon forever?”

“Yes.” Then, softly, “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” David said, “I’ll see you in the morning.”

As he walked back to his car the night air was cool and smelt of flowers and summer. The stars seemed to shine brighter. And he could finally let go of that penthouse suite because _soon_ Diarmuid would finally, _finally_ be coming home to him with a ring on his finger and a smile on his face, ready to tell David about his day.


	3. Song of the Sea - Mermaid AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mermaid AU.
> 
> Diarmuid's a merrow that's been raised by Ciaran, a human. They live happily together on a little island at a little cottage with a large orchard. But lately Diarmuid's been longing for a different kind of companionship. A day at the beach grants him a chance meeting with another lonely merrow who's been waiting for a mate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mainly fluff, but contains some brief description of mermaid sex.
> 
> Diarmuid and the Mute look like the popular image of mermen rather than merrows, but I liked the latter term for this fic better.

He hadn’t always been Ciaran’s son, of course. A human couldn’t have a merrow baby. That was just silly.

No, Diarmuid had found him by chance. Orphaned, lost, and so _hungry_. That was what he remembered the most—the bruises and scrapes healed, but the aching emptiness of his stomach remained day and night, its grumbling an accompaniment to his small, desperate chirps for someone, anyone, to please come help him. He’d just about given up when he’d caught a whiff of something _amazing_ —a number of delicious scents all rolled into one.

Diarmuid had followed the trail as fast as he could manage, too eager to be cautious. When he’d finally popped his head above the water he’d found a small beach connected to green, green hills that led up a dirt path to a little cottage and absolutely enormous orchard, both surrounded by a well-kept wooden fence.

Of course, he hadn’t known the words for any of what he saw at the time. And all he’d been focused on was the fruit.

It’d been more than he’d ever seen before. Bushes with ripe blackberries and blueberries, apples and peaches and apricot trees with branches _drooping_ they were so laden with fruit. Diarmuid had swam to the shore, crawled onto the wet sand, and walked on newfound, wobbly legs to a few fallen pears that littered the ground. They’d been devoured, the juices dribbling down his chin into the dirt as he chewed. Then he had moved onto the plums, with shiny, dark purple skin and deep red flesh and one after another had gone into his stomach as a small pile of pits gathered around his feet. There wasn’t a single fruit or berry he hadn’t sampled, not a one that was safe from his hands and teeth.

Ciaran had found him sleeping under an apple tree, dozing in the shade with a full stomach and hands stained from berries and mouth sticky from fruit. Other men might’ve hauled Diarmuid to the police station or chased him off their property. But Ciaran was a more thoughtful, observant man, and so when Diarmuid had woken up it was in a marble tub with warm water sloshing around his tail and fins, sunlight streaming through the window, and Ciaran, watching over him with gentle eyes and a plate with a slice of blueberry pie in his hands.

* * *

By this point Diarmuid was probably more human than merrow. He spent most of his time on two legs helping his father pick fruit and bake pies for the farmer’s market than he did in the ocean with his fins and gills and tail. While it was satisfying to take a nice, long swim he hadn’t bothered to travel out of sight of Ciaran’s cottage in years. It wasn’t as if there was much for him out there—in the depths of the ocean he’d be living hand to mouth, a frantic, desperate existence, scrabbling and hunting for food while hiding from predators and other dangers. There wasn’t anyone to protect him in deep water, either. No family, no friends—

Ah, well. It was best not worry about that kind of thing. As far as he knew, no merrow but him had ever visited St. Matthias’s Island. Even the day he’d left Ciaran’s beach with a fishing net, determined to pay him back for his kindness and wanting to show that he was old enough and strong enough to hunt for the both of them, there had been nothing in the surrounding water but fish and plants, driftwood and pretty shells.

That following morning he’d returned on two legs with a net full of fish, idly chewing a piece of seaweed, and found Ciaran sitting at the kitchen table, crying into his hands. When looked up and finally noticed Diarmuid with red-rimmed eyes he’d knocked the chair over in his haste to embrace him. The net had fallen from Diarmuid’s hands, the fish scattering across the floor.

“Oh, God, my boy. I thought you left. Thought you didn’t even say goodbye.”

Confused, saddened, and somewhat frightened by his father’s tears, Diarmuid had assured him, “No. _Fish_ , Ciaran. I went to get you fish.”

“You did, didn’t you? You got me fish and I’m so, so proud of you but please—you must tell me the next time you go out on your own, okay? Let me know first.”

“Ciaran, I’m sorry,” he’d mumbled.

“No, no, no, don’t be sorry, you didn’t do anything wrong,” Ciaran had said, wiping his eyes, “You didn’t know. But next time tell me where you’re going, and how long you’ll be gone. You’ll stop me getting a few more gray hairs on my head—my goodness.”

As a child the very idea that he would ever leave Ciaran was bewildering. As an adult it was inconceivable. Diarmuid loved Ciaran—even if his nails and teeth couldn’t break open oyster shells and he couldn’t see underwater at all. He fed Diarmuid _pie_ , and waited for him on his little boat, and when Diarmuid wanted to talk he was there to lend a sympathetic ear and even if he didn’t want to talk, just wanted company, Ciaran would work silently beside him and occasionally ruffle his hair. No, there would be no leaving Ciaran. He was human, yes, but he was home, it was _comfort_ and _safety_ and so was his little cottage and everything they grew together. And yet—

And yet it seemed to Diarmuid that something was missing.

* * *

Occasionally Ciaran left to have a drink with his friends. Diarmuid was always invited to play cards and have a glass of wine or two but he found the idea of perfectly good fruit _fermented_ disgusting and honestly rather offensive.

Instead he opted to sit on the beach, close to the tide so that when the waves swept across the sand the water tickled his feet.

Compared to other humans, Ciaran seemed to be particularly solitary. He was happy with his days around the orchard with Diarmuid and the occasional sojourn into town for the farmer’s market or to visit a few old friends.

But lately Diarmuid felt—not homesick, exactly, but a kind of longing. A want, an ache that grew more and more each day. And it would be nice to have someone to share it with. To have a companion and experience both smiles and sorrows together. To just—be content with one another’s company.

He fiddled with a stray seashell and whistled a little tune of his own making to cheer himself up. Or at least, it started as a whistle. The sound of the waves crawling to shore, the chatter of the gulls flying above, Ciaran’s old radio, low and filled with static—Diarmuid hummed along with them until the ache in his chest burst and then he sang a wordless song of want and hope and promise.

The song ended abruptly as he shut his mouth, embarrassed, when a dark head breached the water and seemed to gaze in his direction.

It’d been over a decade since he’d seen another merrow. His heart leapt. What a surprise! A fellow—a friend! What was the proper way to greet a stranger? Diarmuid had no idea anymore. He went with the human custom and waved.

The strange merrow disappeared beneath the water and Diarmuid’s heart sank along with them. Rejection washed over him. Perhaps he’d been too silly in thinking that someone would want to visit him.

But then the merrow popped up again, just a few feet from the shore, his tail visible in the shallow water. They were different than Diarmuid’s. In the sea his own body was more colorful and delicate, his bright blue scales glittering in the sunlight and his long tail and fins streaming behind him like ribbons. This merrow was a more mottled gray color—fit for camouflaging oneself, Diarmuid thought—his fins sharp, and all of him was broad and muscled and scarred, including his tail. The stranger was built for hunting and protecting and for some strange reason that thought made Diarmuid’s heart flutter. His dark eyes gazed into Diarmuid’s, his brows furrowed.

A blush worked its way onto his face under the merrow’s intense stare. “Did you hear me singing?” he asked.

The merrow nodded and said nothing.

“Did you—did you like it?

He nodded again.

Diarmuid hummed a little of the same song he’d sang. The other merrow perked up. He swam closer to rest on the beach next to Diarmuid, tail curling against his his body. On an impulse Diarmuid nudged the tail with his feet and found the stranger’s scales pleasantly rough. The merrow regarded his legs curiously. He tilted his head to the side, frowning.

“I think I’ve spent more time on legs than with a tail,” Diarmuid admitted, wiggling his toes. “Is that very odd?”

At that the merrow looked up in alarm and frantically shook his head.

His companion seemed to understand him but had yet to utter a word. Was he unused to speaking human language? It _was_ fairly tricky. But Diarmuid hadn’t had reason to speak merrow in so long—he’d surely embarrass himself, and yet—he attempted the half-forgotten chirps and clicks, “Speak to me?”

The merrow stiffened. Diarmuid stared at him, worried he’d somehow gotten his request terribly wrong and insulted him, when the stranger swallowed and took Diarmuid’s hand in his large, callused one and brought his fingers to his throat and slowly, deliberately shook his head.

Ah, so that was it. Either by birth or injury the merrow could not speak—he was mute. Diarmuid ran his fingertips along the rough, scarred skin to brush against his gills, relishing in how his large companion shivered under his touch. “That’s okay. I can talk enough for the both of us.”

The Mute’s dark eyes lit up. He reached around his waist for what Diarmuid had initially taken for some sort of belt; it was a carefully woven string of pearls and shells. The other merrow handed it to Diarmuid and watched his reaction expectantly.

It was a very beautiful thing. Skillfully done. The pearls were bright and lustrous, the little shells intact and colorful, and all of similar size. It had to have taken him quite a long time to collect them. “You made this?” Diarmuid asked. When the merrow nodded he replied, “It’s lovely.” The Mute eagerly held out his hands. Diarmuid handed the item back to him, a little confused, and the Mute shifted to tie it around Diarmuid’s neck with large but nimble clawed fingers.

The makeshift necklace looped comfortably around his collar and fell across his bare chest. “How does it look— _ah_!”

The Mute surged forward, sending Diarmuid’s back to the sand, his bulk against his chest and stomach, the muscle of his lower body and tail pressed between his legs. He kissed him hungrily, desperately, growling with satisfaction when Diarmuid’s lips parted; his wet, hot tongue licked into his mouth and he tasted like sea salt. Diarmuid gave a shy lick in return and moaned when he felt the Mute’s sharp teeth.

His companion—no, his mate, now, because that was what they were, wasn’t it? He’d attracted another merrow with his song and accepted his gift and his very being and now they were kissing frantically on the sand as the waves crashed around them. The Mute’s teeth nipped at Diarmuid’s neck and shoulder and his beard scraped against his skin and it was the best sensation that Diarmuid had ever felt.

“Let me—let me change?” he asked, panting with need. The Mute gazed at him with some confusion before Diarmuid indicated his meaning with an impatient wiggle of his toes. Then there were two more kisses to either side of his mouth and his new mate back away into the water, flushed and eager.

Diarmuid’s shimmied out of his shorts and tossed them to the dry sand behind him.

The necklace stayed on.

As he waded into the water and his legs transformed back into his long, flowing tail Diarmuid fell into the Mute’s outstretched arms.

In an instant they were underwater, his mate’s powerful form sending them further down into the warm, blue depths of the ocean. Diarmuid cuddled against his chest, their tails intertwined, and sighed in contentment and _shivered_ as the Mute’s hands held him tight and his claws raked over his scales.

* * *

There’d been a few human lovers in Diarmuid’s lifetime, but while they seemed to have enjoyed the experience he had always been left rather bemused. It had never been _unpleasant_ but rather just—underwhelming.

Well, perhaps because none of them had been the Mute. They’d made love until the sun had set, wrapped in each other’s arms, lips never leaving the other’s skin, hips rolling together at first in a frenzied pace but then settling into lazy, gentle thrusts. It was lucky that they were the only pair of merrows around because Diarmuid had screamed and cried with pleasure and he’d probably given his mate a few more scars with his nails after clawing at his back, but the Mute didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he looked quite proud of himself.

The satisfaction on his face faded as Diarmuid pulled away and, with a glance at the darkening sky, said, “I need to get back home.”

The Mute frantically shook his head. He tugged on Diarmuid’s arms in an attempt to lead him further out.

“I’m still yours,” Diarmuid murmured, and the tension in the Mute’s body relaxed, “But I have a life on land. I need to at least tell my father—the human who raised me—about you. Then we can figure out the next step.”

Grim determination set on the Mute’s rough, handsome face. He wrapped Diarmuid in his arms once more and began to swim back towards the island.

Diarmuid asked, surprised, “You’ll come with me?”

His answer was a firm kiss to the side of his head as the water rushed around them.

* * *

The Mute had never walked on his legs before. Diarmuid pulled his clothes back on and giggled as the large merrow wobbled and leaned against him as they walked the path to Ciaran’s cottage.

Everything seemed to surprise him. He had just gotten used to the dirt path when Diarmuid pulled them into the cottage. His mate glanced suspiciously at the well-worn wooden floor and frowned as Diarmuid sat him at the kitchen table.

Diarmuid gave him a peck on the lips. “I’ll be right back. Stay put.”

He especially didn’t appreciate the bright, colorful beach towel that Diarmuid wrapped around his naked lower half, but his irritation was easily mollified when Diarmuid said, “That’ll be coming off later.”

Ciaran arrived home just as Diarmuid was showing an utterly fascinated merrow how the sink worked. He shrugged off his coat and called out a greeting.

“I’m back, Diarmuid! Got a bit wild today, my dear. Frances went and pulled out the charades cards when Harry and Georgina were already three sheets to the wind—oh, hello, who’s your friend? _And where are his pants_?” he asked, outraged.

Diarmuid bit his lip. How best to explain the day’s events so that his human father would understand? “I found a husband while you were gone, Ciaran,” he said.

“You **_what_**.”

* * *

An hour later after a great deal of hurried explanations and not a little bit of uproar, the three of them sat at the kitchen table, calm.

“Well, it looks like it was an eventful day for all of us,” Ciaran said, offering the Mute a slice of blueberry pie. “As long as he treats you well, Diarmuid.”

His mate eyed the plate with uncertainty. Diarmuid gently stroked the side of his face. He sliced off a small piece of the pie with his fork. He offered the morsel to the Mute, who preened and obediently opened his mouth to be fed. An extremely happy, satisfied hum followed. The other merrow was practically purring.

Diarmuid smiled. “Oh, we get along very well, Ciaran, don’t worry.”

The Mute grinned and pressed a sticky, purple kiss to his lips.


	4. Sinners and Saints - Angel/Demon AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> David is the security guard at an art show dedicated to the lives and torments of saints, and Diarmuid was a model for one of the paintings. David's not entirely sure how exactly the sweet young man who keeps him company during the show is the same person depicted as the personification of lust and sin in the painting.
> 
> Until Diarmuid invites him up to his apartment after work that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angel/Demon AU.
> 
> A more vague, abstract prompt fill. Pretty much smut.
> 
> With apologies to St. John the Long-Suffering, whose story I've taken many, many liberties from in order to write smut.

The art show was titled _Agonies and Temptations: Hagiographies in Brief_ , centered on the suffering enduring by various saints, all excruciatingly detailed in oil on canvas. The artist—he just went by “Cathal”—was described as a 21st century Caravaggio for his use of light and shadow, a new master of _chiaroscuro_. Viewers could see the most pivotal moments in the saints’ lives as if they were illuminated in spotlight.

Jesus, he’d read that exhibit guide too many times over. That was the only reason David knew any of that shit.

He was hired security. Usually at clubs or bars and occasionally rowdier parties in rich neighborhoods. The art studio was a nice change of pace but David readily admitted that he was way out of his depth. Art was—it was cool and all, but it wasn’t really something that he often took much of an interest in. The curator sure thought this show would be a success, but David had no idea what the paintings were worth or if people would even come see them. As far as he could tell this Cathal’s technique was good. They were—Hell. They were _nicely painted_ oil paintings.

Fuck, obviously he’d missed his calling as an art critic.

But, in his humble opinion, the subject matter was a bit repetitive. You could only paint the torment, torture, and death of various saints so many times before the gore, however diverse—St. Aphian underwent some assorted overkill—before it got stale.

David really liked one of the paintings, though. _St. John the Long-Suffering_. Set in a gilded frame, it depicted the titular saint undergoing temptation and torment from a demon, except, well—

St. John really wasn’t the focus of the painting.

The man was off to the side, kneeling on the hard ground, obscured in shadow, one hand over his face and the other tentatively outstretched either to Heaven for help or to the alluring demon in a moment of weakness. The demon stood at the mouth of the cave, illuminated by sunlight, lovely, pale skin visible through some sort of gauzy red material wrapped around his body, curly brown hair rumpled as if he’d just woken up from bed, dark, dark, eyes staring further into the cave—directly at the viewer—face pink from arousal, his expression sultry, as if he’d already gotten his prospective lover into bed and was planning every single thing he was going to do to him.

Or maybe that was just David projecting. Art was a funny thing.

That St. John the Long-Suffering, though—David had read the little blurb about him, too. The man had struggled with lust his entire existence, lived a life of asceticism in a cave but was still tormented over his fleshly desires. The Devil had sent a snake or a demon to cajole him out of seclusion but he’d overcome it through prayer and through faith.

Looking at the demon in the form of a practically naked, gorgeous young man ready to be thoroughly pleasured and to give pleasure in return, David could safely say that he wouldn’t have had the self-restraint.

He wondered about Cathal’s model for the painting—artists really got the pick of their pick of beautiful volunteers, didn’t they—and offered a blessing to St. John, the poor bastard.

* * *

The show was a hit and the curator was over the moon as a bunch of hoity-toity artiste types and people with money to burn who ate up the bullshit they spouted wandered the studio, delighted with Cathal’s work. They studied his depiction of St. Barthlomew’s flayed skin and decapitated head, admired his version St. Lucy presenting her own eyes on a golden platter to the would-be suitor who so coveted them, but they were all _entranced_ by the St. John the Long-Suffering’s sultry temptation. A crowd had gathered near the painting; each time someone left another person stepped in to take their place. Throughout the night there was a constant clamor around the piece.

David observed them all milling about with mild boredom. Like some of his more affluent clients, the guests at the studio didn’t bother to speak to him. They ate their hor d’oeuvres and sipped at their wine and their gazes pointedly skipped over him as they moved from one painting to another.

All except one.

Somehow the young man had sneaked up on him. “Do you need a drink? Not wine, but, like, the lemon water? It’s so hot in here and I haven’t seen you take a break in hours.” David turned to stare in surprise an extraordinarily sweet, pretty face with the biggest brown eyes he’d ever seen.

The young man handed him a glass of water.

Taking a quick glance around to make sure the curator wasn’t watching, David drained the glass and said, “Thank you. But I’m not supposed to be eating or drinking on the job. Or, interacting with the guests, really.”

“That doesn’t seem fair,” said the young man with a frown, “You need to stay hydrated. I’ll bring you water, if you need it. I’m a special guest, anyway. Everyone’s spending the night looking at me, so I think I can bend the rules a bit.”

David smiled and said, “That’s nice of you, but—wait, what do you mean? You’re not Cathal, are you?”

An adorable little giggle bubbled from his throat. “Oh, no, Cathal’s over _there_ with some prospective buyers. I’m over there, tempting St. John.” And he nodded at the piece where, Jesus fucking Christ, a goddamn art studio full of people, including David, had drooled over his perfect, nude body depicted in oil paint.

Slack-jawed, David turned back to the young man. It _was_ him, and yet—and yet it seemed like he was a completely different person. Instead of the sultry, knowing expression there was instead a bright, cheerful smile, and he was of course completely dressed—in shiny dress shoes, dark blue trousers, and crisp, white, collared shirt.

“That’s you,” David said, voice hoarse, more of a statement than a question.

“That’s me! I’m Diarmuid. And who are you?”

“David,” said David, “I’m—security.”

Diarmuid smiled. “Well, someone needs to be looking out for _you_ , mister. So watch out! I’m going to sneak you some sustenance!”

He flitted about like a hummingbird, collecting tiny plates of appetizers and party food, surreptitiously passing them along to David in between his chats with other guests. David could see that Diarmuid gave each person an equal amount of time and attention, but he always gravitated back to David with another glass of water or bite-sized treat for him to try.

As David ate a bacon-wrapped scallop and chased it with a handful of maple-roasted almonds, Diarmuid watched him with bright, shining eyes. “Good?” he asked. He worried his lip between his teeth.

“Good,” David assured him, lost in the young man’s dark brown eyes.

Diarmuid smiled.

Later in the night, when the event had wound down and the curator was too tipsy to really care that one of the guests was monopolizing the security guard’s attention, David worked up the courage to question Diarmuid about the painting.

“So, you and Cathal—you, uh, together?”

A bout of surprised laughter burst out of Diarmuid. “Oh! Like, personally? No. He’s just a friend. But we’re artistic partners, I guess you could say. This isn’t the first time I’ve modeled for one of his pieces.”

Lucky guy. “That must be why your painting turned out so well. I think it’s, uh, the best one. Out of the whole exhibit.”

“I’m glad you like it,” Diarmuid purred, “You’ve got great taste, David.”

“What—uh. If I can ask. What were you thinking of? Your expression. In the painting. It’s you, but it doesn’t really seem like—uh, _you_.” The demonic personification of lust in the painting looked ready to _devour_ men. Diarmuid, standing in front of him with a bright smile on his freckled face, just seemed too sweet and adorable.

The young man considered the question. “Hm, well. Maybe that’s something we can talk about later, if you’d like? When’s your shift end?”

“Around ten. I got to stick around for bit after everyone clears out, but, if you want to wait—“

“Oh, I want to.” Diarmuid wrote an address and phone number down on a piece of paper. “How about you come over to my place at 10:30? Gives me a bit of time to get ready for you.”

His tongue suddenly felt thick and heavy. “Yeah,” David managed to choke out, as he safely folded the paper and put it in his wallet, “Yeah, sounds great. I’ll be there.”

* * *

And he was. About five minutes early. David had hemmed and hawed in the lobby, debating whether to wait the extra time or not. He didn’t want to seem _too_ eager—but, well, actually, yes. Yes, he did want Diarmuid to know he was excited to take him up on his offer. Plus, he was getting curious and wary looks from people wandering in and out of the apartment building. So he took a deep breath and buzzed Diarmuid over the intercom.

“ _David?_ ” Diarmuid sounded slightly surprised.

“Yeah, uh. I know I’m a bit early, but—“

“ _No, no, you’re right on time! I just wasn’t really sure if you’d show up…”_

David snorted. Only someone resolutely on the path to sainthood would turn Diarmuid down, and even that was debatable. “Of course I’m here—I said I would be, right?”

“ _You did. I’ll let you up in a moment, hold on_.”

As he waited David fiddled with his tie. He loosened it, then, worried Diarmuid might see it as slovenly, tightened it again, but then thought about loosening it once more when he remembered that he wouldn’t be wearing it for much longer anyway.

In the end he kept it loose enough so that Diarmuid could easily take it off. If he wanted to.

* * *

Diarmuid answered his door in the fluffiest bathrobe that David had ever seen. He looked like a little sheep with his curly brown hair mussed and still slightly damp from a shower, face flushed pink, and draped in a fluffy, cream-colored robe that ended just below his thighs. It was goddamned adorable.

He was happily ushered inside by a beaming Diarmuid who then quickly shut the door behind them and gave David a hug. “Thank you again for coming. I think we’ll have fun. Do you need to a moment to get ready before we start? Can I get you a drink or anything?”

Voice hoarse and throat dry, David said, “No, no—I’d, uh. I’m ready. Only thing I need is to get this suit off.” He smiled, uncertain and awkward, but Diarmuid let out a sweet laugh like he had actually said something funny.

The young man reached out and tugged on his tie. “You’re eager—that’s _so_ flattering.”

“Yes. Yeah,” replied David, ever a wordsmith.

Diarmuid giggled. He led David to the bedroom by the tie. An impish little angel.

How the Hell had Cathal gotten him looking like St. John’s worst nightmare in that painting? David wondered as Diarmuid gleefully flopped backwards onto his bed and rested on his elbows. He removed his shoes, his suit jacket, his pants with as much grace as possible. Diarmuid was beautiful and charming and wonderfully giggly—David made a mental note to test if he was ticklish—but he remained incredulous as to how the Diarmuid swinging his legs off the side of the bed in anticipation had transformed into an incubus with just oil paint. 

“You told me you’d tell me what you were thinking about,” David reminded him, “When you were modeling for Cathal.”

The young man laughed anew. “Oh, right!” He wiggled on the bed, watching David unbutton his shirt. “I was thinking about getting fucked.”

David stopped mid-button, unsure if he’d heard the sweet voice correctly. “What.”

“Did you read the little info guide that went along with the paintings? St. John the Long-Suffering—tormented by lustful thoughts his entire life, even when he lived as an ascetic in his cave. And the Devil wanted to break his will.” Diarmuid pulled at the belt of his bathrobe, unraveling the pretty bow it’d been tied in. “He sent a demon to tempt him out of the cave. The demon took the man’s head in its mouth, and St. John cried and prayed to God to deliver him from his base desires.”

He shrugged out of the robe, tossing it to the side. David took in his gorgeous, freckled skin, his cock all flushed pink, and—

The air was forced out of him as Diarmuid shifted and slowly spread his legs, revealing inner thighs wet and slick with lubrication. David watched, utterly entranced, as the young man repositioned himself to rest against the headboard and inserted two fingers inside himself and moaned. “I was thinking about getting fucked,” he repeated. “I’m really glad you decided to visit. I spent the last half hour preparing for you. I want to feel your lips on my skin and your cock inside me, filling me up. I want to hear what you sound like when you’re thrusting in me, stretching me out. What you sound like when you come inside me.”

“Holy fuck,” David breathed. He shrugged the shirt off himself—some of the buttons popped off but what the fuck did he care—and kicked off his boxers, exposing his hard, leaking cock to the air.

Diarmuid settled into the sheets, beckoned him over with a come-hither motion of his finger, and smiled.

Ah, David thought, one hand pumping his shaft as he took in the absolute beauty before him, There it was. The expression on Diarmuid’s face now was the same as in the painting, tempting the faithful to forego their vows of virtue and just _sin._

When he crawled on top of Diarmuid the young man sighed and tilted his head to the side, exposing a neck spotted with freckles like constellations. David didn’t need another hint; he kissed and sucked at the soft, delicate skin. Every happy, contented moan that the young man made went straight to his cock.

“Sure you’re ready for me?” he asked, panting against Diarmuid’s shoulder.

Diarmuid rolled his hips up. “I’ve been waiting _all night_ for you. I _need_ you, David,” he pleaded.

“Jesus Christ.”

It was too much to be gentle. David plunged himself into Diarmuid’s hot, wet, little hole, stretched and dripping with lube and still so tight, and fucked him hard and fast. The headboard slammed against the wall with each thrust as Diarmuid keened underneath him, twisting the sheets in his fingers.

“ _Ah_! _Ah_! David, harder— _please_!” He wrapped his legs around David’s waist in an attempt to push him in further. David’s grunts and groans were practically bestial, Diarmuid’s screams sinful and sweet, and the wet sound of David’s cock frantically pumping in and out of Diarmuid’s hole utterly _debauched_.

Fuck. _Fuck_. He felt so good—Diarmuid was _so good_ , thrusting up in time with him and squeezing around his aching cock as David chased the amazing feeling, dreading when it had to end but desperate to come and fill Diarmuid full liked he wanted. His thoughts were vague and hazy as Diarmuid writhed underneath him. Sinners and saints and angels and demons. He wouldn’t have lasted. Fucking Christ. He thrust himself as deep as he possibly could and Diarmuid _screamed._ If the snake at the Garden of Eden had looked like _this_ David would’ve gotten kicked out for a lot more than eating an apple.

“David, you stopped kissing me,” Diarmuid whimpered, “I want to come when you’re kissing me. I want your tongue in my mouth when your cock’s filling me up.”

David groaned. “Oh, God, _fuck_. Fuck, honey.” He pressed his lips to Diarmuid’s, swallowed his pleased little giggles that turned to low, desperate moans as David’s thrusts became more and more erratic.

“I’m going to come. Diarmuid—“

“Oh, please, _please_ , yes, David!” Diarmuid’s his nails dug into David’s back as he moaned against him. He tasted like champagne and his nails stung in the best way. David could feel his cock, trapped between their stomachs, leaking more and more precum with every thrust, and he was still so, so tight, so hot and impossibly good. David tried to pull his head back to tell him that he was amazing, gorgeous, but Diarmuid surged forward and pulled his tongue into his mouth and _sucked_ and then David was coming inside him.

Diarmuid mewled as David continued thrusting through his orgasm. He arched his hips up and rutted against David’s stomach and licked inside his mouth, coming with a shiver and a cry as David continued to spill inside of him.

Afterwards, in the post-sex haze when they were both finally spent, they lay curled together on the bed. David’s cum dripped out of Diarmuid and down his thighs and onto the sheets and they both smelt like sweat and sex and _fuck_ , what a night. David ran a hand through his hair, trying and failing to hide a satisfied grin.

Diarmuid was practically purring. “I liked that _a lot_. Can we go again later?”

Jesus Christ. God bless St. John the Long-Suffering David thought as Diarmuid nibbled at his neck. The poor bastard didn’t know what he was missing.

Well, he’d gotten a sainthood out of it, so good for him. But David had gotten Diarmuid, and there was no question in his mind which of them had gotten the better deal.

“You want to get breakfast tomorrow morning?” he asked. 

Diarmuid traced his lower lip with a finger. “We could stay in. I could cook something for you. Breakfast in bed.”

“Deal. But I’m helping. I make pretty good pancakes,” David said. Diarmuid giggled and nodded in agreement. They kissed again, legs entwined and wrapped in each other’s arms.

It had to be a tough life, being a saint.


	5. As the Stars Have Twirled - (Post) Apocalypse AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apocalypse AU.
> 
> David and Diarmuid go on a routine trip to observe the surroundings and update their maps. The environment is sometimes unnerving, sometimes beautiful, but always quite strange. The couple finds a place to spend the night together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A small mishmash of Roadside Picnic and the Metro series kind of universe. Really just an excuse for more smut.

The building had been caught in the middle of the Fall, stuck in time. Decades later the glass was still bursting from the windows, the bricks in the middle of tumbling to the gravel below, and pigeons from the rooftop attempting to escape, their skeletal remains in midflight.

David did his best to ignore the people with their bones bleached by the sun and overgrown with moss and plant life, posed in panic as they fled.

Diarmuid stared at the top of the building, curious. “I don’t know,” he said, “I could see living on the ground floor, maybe, but at the very top? It’s so high up. Ciaran said the Ancient Romans had apartments, too, and the wealthier lived on the bottom with all the amenities—like running water—and the poor lived at the top. But in Ciaran’s time it was kind of the opposite. The very top floor could be the best place. The _penthouse_.” He paused. “Well, and then there were people who had a whole building to their family. Imagine that, David.”

The young man had been born after the Fall and into the new, bright, ever-shifting world with strange, amorphous geography. His standard of living was underground, fortified tunnels big enough for a man like David to walk through easily, and small spaces cleared aside for family units and merchants.

David had fucking clue what the Ancient Romans were or how they lived, but he’d been a child during the Fall and he remembered _houses_. The thought of having Diarmuid and just Diarmuid with him in a place with multiple bedrooms, a kitchen, a place to wash, with each and every room perfect and private for their lovemaking—a dream.

Maybe one day an attainable one if they found a safe place on the surface that wasn’t too far from Ciaran and didn’t send them trapped in a desert or drowning in an ocean if they walked the wrong path. David could take care of any human and animal threats and all the strange things in between, no issue there, but it was Diarmuid who had the ability to sense a shift in the air and direct them to a stable route. He’d never been wrong. It was why he scouted the surrounding area, marking dangers and resources and places of interest to explore and scribbling maps for the patrols. But even though he was lean and fast he was still small and curious and easily distracted, and that was why David was always assigned to watch over him.

Not that he minded one bit. During the day he kept Diarmuid on track, and at night he kept him on his back with his legs spread wide, happy and keening as David pounded into him. He planned on doing it again when they returned home; they’d managed a quick fuck before they’d left that morning, and it had been sweet but far too short to keep David satisfied for long.

* * *

The apartment building proved to be a place of interest for Diarmuid. He turned to David. "If everything's been in the same position for all these years, then maybe there could be something useful in the building. Do you want to check? All the rooms, it'd add another day to our travel, but..."

It wasn't the extra day that gave David pause--he'd never complain about more time alone with Diarmuid. But the apartment building wasn't just a relic of a bygone age. It was a tomb frozen in time. Some of its inhabitants had tried to flee, but David knew there had to be many more inside their rooms. Those who had been unaware or unafraid of the calamity that had occurred around them. What would they look like? The animals and elements had stripped these ones of their skin and organs, but the ones inside… If nothing had managed to get inside in all these years, they'd be—mummified, probably. And he'd seen plenty of the dead in his life, those killed by an odd shift, the space around them suddenly compressing and squeezing their bodies to pulp, maimed by any wild creature, recognizable or not, and dead from blood loss or infection. David had killed just as many people himself in this strange new world. Would-be warlords and raving cultists and men gone feral. Threats to the base, with all its families huddled inside, to his old squad, loyal and well-trained but still fallible, and especially to Diarmuid, who was sweet and always met people expecting friendship rather than violence.

No, it was the concept of the shift that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. The idea that these people hadn't died immediately, but had been stuck, unable to move and aware as they slowly died of exposure or of thirst. A nightmare. Hellish.

Diarmuid watched his unease with gentle, understanding eyes. "We don't have to. Not if you're uncomfortable."

"I'd—I'd rather we not. Not this place. If that's okay." David cleared his throat.

"Always," Diarmuid immediately answered, patting his arm. "Don't worry about it. Let's move on."

* * *

They were walking along a well-worn road, Diarmuid leading and David following, when the young man suddenly veered to the left and into the forest. He held out his hand for David to grab and pulled him along. "Shift over there," he said. "Near that old rusted bench. I'll mark it on the map when we camp."

David's large, rough hand engulfed Diarmuid's smaller one. He gave it a tiny squeeze. "Anywhere we would want to go?"

"I couldn't tell exactly from where we were, but I don't think so. It was really far away. It was-- _hm_. Dry and arid. Hot. You know?"

He didn't. Diarmuid could sense a shift and it's nature the way some people smelled the rain on the air before it fell from the clouds. Seemed to be an inherent ability in those born after the Fall; Diarmuid had just honed it to a skill.

He could also jump the shifts without any trouble. Some of them the patrols used to communicate with one another faster, jumping from one outpost to another to relay a message or bring supplies. The first time David had done it under Diarmuid's supervision they'd been walking through an old, abandoned railway. David had been following behind the young man, observing the tufts of grass growing in between the railroad tracks, and then suddenly they weren't walking on railroad tracks but down a grassy hill, filled with large, brightly colored wildflowers.

He'd paused to admire them and then the shift in location caught up with his stomach and he'd spent the next few minutes vomiting his breakfast into the dirt. That'd been early on in their partnership together, when David listened to the pretty young man's chatter with a sympathetic ear and only dreamed of kissing him senseless by their campfire. Red-faced and humiliated, he'd apologized to Diarmuid for the sight, only to stop, shocked, as Diarmuid shushed him and ran his hand soothingly up and down his back.

"Poor David," he'd murmured, "It's okay. Most everyone gets sick when they do this. You're not the first and you're not the worst. Don't worry. I'll take care of you." And then he'd knelt down in front of him, brushed a few strands of damp, dark hair from his eyes, and smiled warmly.

David was only a man. He'd fallen right in love.

The nausea still came with every shift—a particular and peculiar kind of motion sickness—but it was greatly eased by Diarmuid's fingers laced with his and his soft, gentle words of comfort and affection.

* * *

The forest was too bright. Too perfect. The leaves and branches that scattered on the ground were placed just so. David glared at the detritus as it crunched beneath their feet. And the trees--the trees were perfect specimens of foliage, with branches fit for climbing and each well-formed leaf as green as anything David had ever seen. On a few oak trees he spied multiple clusters of exactly three acorns, all the same size. There were picnic tables still somehow freshly painted white, as if ready to entice weary travelers. He walked onward, slow and tense and distrusting, ready to pull Diarmuid to him at any moment, to shield the young man with his own body.

But Diarmuid was fascinated. He ran his fingers along the rough bark and peered up at the tree tops and chattered happily. "Oh, David, it's like—someone's best memory of a forest."

"Is someone doing this?" David asked, alarmed, machete in hand. "This a trap?"

"No, no, David, it's okay. There's no one here--"

"The forest, then? Is it trying to trick us?” Odder things had happened.

"No, that's what I was saying. This isn't even really a forest. It's a memory of one. There isn’t anyone else around for miles. Not even bugs, or animals. Just the two of us, and the earth."

“It’s safe?”

“It’s safe. I promise. Do you trust me?”

David responded, immediately and without question, "Always." Then he added, "But stay behind me. For my own peace of mind."

"Of course, David."

* * *

By the time the sun set they were at the edge of the memory-forest with a town just in the distance.

“Let’s rest?” Diarmuid asked. “We’re still the only people around for miles. And it’s so pretty here.”

David did have to admit that it was a perfect memory to camp in. All the logs he found were perfectly dry and caught fire immediately, and the smoke drifted away from their faces. Diarmuid made note of each observation in his journal.

“I think if it has to do with forestry and the outdoors in any way, the shift will make it nice for us. That’s useful! We’ll have to experiment a bit more, but this could be an excellent resource for travelers.” He added it to the map, along with the note of the shift behind him near the old park bench.

It’d been a pretty good patrol, notwithstanding the sight of the skeletons, David thought as he looked in their pack to check their supplies, and the memory-forest _was_ pretty, and it was nice to sit with Diarmuid by a campfire and talk and not have to worry about foe _or_ friend bothering them and—

_What_. What was _that_. David took a small jar out of the backpack that’d been safely nestled at the bottom, surrounded by bandages and cotton balls for first aid.

Incredulous, he asked Diarmuid, “You packed _lube_?”

Diarmuid’s head snapped up so quickly that he might’ve gotten whiplash. “Oh, Lord, I forgot all about that—it was just an idea, if we—if we found the time and a place. And if you wanted.”

“I _always_ want to,” David assured. He marveled at the blushing, beautiful young man sitting across from him. “Did you have a place in mind?” He’d had add a week, a month to their trip if it meant he could find a spot to have sex with Diarmuid.

His lover shifted nervously. “I was on the look out, but, um. Maybe—maybe here? It’s so pretty, and it’s safe, and—and we’re the _only_ ones around for _miles_ , David. And—well, I don’t think we’ll need that much lube. I’m still loose, from this morning.” He blushed furiously. “Your cock stretched me out so _good_.”

The blood rushed to his cock at Diarmuid’s words. And fucking him out in the open—an even more delicious image. But another thought gave him pause. “You might get cold, sweetheart.”

Diarmuid shook his head and smiled. “No, I won’t. You’ll keep me warm. You’ll be on top of me _and_ inside me, right?”

Throat suddenly dry, David could only nod. Diarmuid smiled wider and began to undress.

David scrambled to make a comfortable place for their lovemaking. He set out their bedrolls and blankets—not too close to the fire but not too far away from it, so they could still feel the warmth of the flames without worrying about stray embers on bare skin. As he himself undressed David shrugged off his coat and laid it on top of the bedrolls, an extra layer of comfort for Diarmuid.

His lover, already naked and pink and so, _so_ pretty shoved two well lubricated fingers slowly into himself and watched him with an eager, expectant expression.

“Show me what you want,” David rasped.

Diarmuid hummed, then slowly knelt on all fours on the makeshift bed. He glanced at David over his shoulder, blushing and smiling. “Like this,” he murmured. He gave his hips a little wiggle.

David was only a man. He pounced.

David took him from behind, pulling Diarmuid’s hips back so that he sank further onto his cock each time he pumped his hips forward. There was no other noise around them except the sound David’s skin against Diarmuid’s and his lover’s cries and gasps as David forced the air from his lungs with each thrust. Diarmuid’s voice echoed throughout the forest, a sounding beacon of his pleasure.

There was no one around, David knew that—Diarmuid would have sensed another soul immediately—but they were outside, naked and exposed under the night sky and illuminated by the fire and if someone were to follow his lover’s eager moans they’d see him flushed pink and sweating and panting, eyes fluttering, fingers clenched in David’s coat as his leaking cock dripped precum all over the material.

It was a completely impossible scenario and the burst of jealousy that coursed through David’s body was entirely irrational, but he couldn’t stop the growl that emitted from his throat as he shifted the both them to better shield Diarmuid from potential prying eyes. He gently pushed his lover down so that his head rested in his arms and his ass was in the air and so that David’s could cover his entire body, his chest against Diarmuid’s back and his lips to the nape of his neck, his thrusts sharp and deep.

Diarmuid tensed underneath him and David knew that he was close. He reached a hand underneath them to grab that pretty, aching cock. Diarmuid shook his head. “N-no, David, I’ll m-mess up your coat more—“

“Want you to cum on it,” David growled into his ear, “Want everyone to see you on me. To _smell_ you on me. So they all know that I make you feel good.” He kissed Diarmuid’s freckled, sweaty back and pumped his cock through his fingers. They could know—they _had_ to know that David and Diarmuid belonged to each other, but only David could see Diarmuid like this, naked and beautiful and shaking with pleasure.

His lover’s gasps turned to soft, sweet little whimpers as he pulsed, hot and sticky, into David’s hand and onto the coat and blankets. As he trembled he tightened around David’s cock, milking him as David fucked desperately into his hot, shivering body.

David followed quickly after with a groan, collapsing on top of Diarmuid, pressing him against the ground, still shallowly thrusting his hips as spilled inside his lover.

He gave he both of them time to rest before pushing himself off and rolling Diarmuid over on his back, running his hands gently along his sides.

“Good?” David asked, kissing Diarmuid’s sweaty curls.

The young man nodded. “Very good. Amazing.” He still sounded a little dazed, his chest rising and falling with every deep breath, still so flushed and lovely. David couldn’t resist him, couldn’t bare _not_ to touch him, to worship him with his hands, his tongue, with everything he had.

The beads of sweat on Diarmuid’s skin glistened in the firelight. It was as though he was spotted with stars. David licked them up, every drop he could, the proof of their passionate exertions and the pleasure he could bring to the younger man, laving his tongue along Diarmuid’s panting, trembling body.

Diarmuid shivered, over stimulated, as David mouthed at his spent cock. “ _Oh_! David—gentle with me, please.”

“Always,” David said, pressing a kiss to the inside of his thigh.

There was never a time when he had gotten his fill of Diarmuid—the salt of his sweat on his tongue, the sweet sound of his sighs in his ears, how soft and smooth his skin was under David’s calloused fingers—but, as always, his lover grew impatient with his ministrations and called him back up to his arms with a plea. “ _David_.”

Whatever Diarmuid wanted he would give. He was utterly incapable of anything else.

Cuddled together on top of David’s coat and their blankets, he dared to whisper the thoughts that had run through his head as he’d drank in Diarmuid’s sweat—the stars, and beauty, and his devotion. The younger man blushed and kissed his jaw before they turned their attention to the real night sky shining down on them.

“Ciaran told me that there’s not as many stars as there were before the Fall. And I’ve seen photos—books on astronomy and the like—and there _are_ less. But, I don’t know,” Diarmuid murmured. “It really doesn’t look that much less bright to me.”

David pulled the younger man closer to him. “Doesn’t matter to me. Long as I get to look at it with you.”

“ _Mm._ I love you,” Diarmuid said, his voice heavy with impending sleep.

David smiled. Immediately and without question, he replied, “I love you."

He stared at a sky missing stars, his lover dozing in his arms.

Before and after the Fall. The so-called destruction of civilization and society. A world where memories were given physical form and you could accidentally walk the length of entire continents if you weren’t careful. What did he care? His entire universe began and ended with Diarmuid.


	6. I'll Take Grace - Crossover AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crossover AU - Mindhunter.
> 
> Agents David and Diarmuid interview a serial killer who gets under David's skin. Later, they have a small discussion in their hotel room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An attempt at a kind of crossover. Hope you enjoy reading it!

He was nearly as tall as David and had once perhaps had a similar physique. He was still big, still broad, his hands still rough from manual labor, but his face was lined with age, his muscle lost to time, his hair and beard gray. As they entered the room his sun-worn face crinkled in confusion at Diarmuid as the young man settled into his seat and set up the tape recorder.

“You’re an FBI agent?” Victor Morgan asked.

Diarmuid nodded. “Yes, sir. Agent Diarmuid Sullivan and Agent David Shepherd. We spoke on the phone.”

The man stroked his beard thoughtfully. “See, now I know I’m getting old. You’re so young. You remind me of my nephew.”

Diarmuid smiled. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“Oh, good. Only good. Smart boy. Real smart—graduated top of his class in college. Hell of a thing. I gave him two hundred dollars for that. Don’t think that goes that far these days, but, you know.” He shrugged and scrutinized Diarmuid further. “Pretty boy, just like you.”

David’s jaw clenched. He reached underneath the table and squeezed Diarmuid’s leg—both as a warning and an indication of his own unease—but his partner only continued to smile. “That’s very kind of you to say.”

With a playful, self-deprecating air Morgan said, “He gets it from my sister. She’s the real beauty of the family. Good looks skipped a generation with me though. That’s just how it is, sometimes, isn’t it?” He laughed and turned to David. “You know what I mean, don’t you? You got that weathered look.”

The attempt at a comparison grated him. David gritted his teeth. “We’re here to discuss the reason for your incarceration.”

“Yeah, your Agent Diarmuid here mentioned in the phone call.” Morgan gave Diarmuid a paternal smile and leaned back in his seat. “Well, don’t really see what wouldn’t be in my file, or the papers.”

“But that’s not really _you_ , though, is it?” Diarmuid slid the files to the side of the table. “It’s all second-hand versions of the events. We’d rather talk to you. Hear what guided your actions. Understand you, and those who’ve committed similar crimes. Your answers will help us in future investigations,” he added, with the hopeful tone of someone asking for donations to feed hungry, needy children.

The old man gave a sniff. “ _Hm_. How much time we got?”

David glanced at his watch. “A little over an hour.”

“Well, alright. Don’t know how much use I’ll be to you, but I’ll give it my best.”

Diarmuid’s smile was bright, beaming. “Oh, thank you so much.” He leaned forward and turned the tape recorder on and spoke clearly. “Agent Sullivan and Agent Shepherd, interviewing Victor Morgan, who is serving a life-sentence at St. Matthias Penitentiary for the abduction and murder of fourteen people. Would you like a drink from the commissary, Mr. Morgan? Our treat.”

“I wouldn’t say no to a glass of lemonade, if you’d be so kind.”

“Of course.” Diarmuid turned to the guard. “Could we all get a glass? Thank you so much.”

There was no fucking way David was sharing a drink with this monster. He shifted in his seat. Morgan’s eyes momentarily flitted to his own, his attention caught by the movement, but the old man quickly turned back to Diarmuid. “It’s not going to be in a real glass, you know. It’ll be a big plastic cup. ‘Cause if you break the glass, you can use it as a weapon.”

Was that a fucking threat? David bit back a growl. His grip tightened on Diarmuid’s thigh.

“That makes sense,” Diarmuid mused, “But, how difficult is it to kill someone with a shard of glass? You’d have to hit an artery or something, wouldn’t you?”

Morgan seemed to ponder the question. “I wouldn’t rightly know. I never stabbed anyone with anything before. Glass or not.”

“No, you strangled the people you— _found_.”

The old man chuckled. “You got a kindly way of wording things, don’t you? Is this tape on? I did, yes. Hitchhikers. Used to be more of them, back in the day. Easy to pick up a man or woman wandering down the road, at the truck stops. I delivered a lot of refrigerated product for a company, vegetables and seafood and the like. Made it easy to get them home. Serendipity, I think you call it.”

David stared at him, appalled. _Serendipity_. What the fuck. Diarmuid merely hummed in agreement. “You were a truck driver for nearly thirty-four years.”

“I was indeed, yes.”

“But the police only found fourteen bodies in your house.”

They’d only caught him a couple years ago. The police had gone after him for an attempted abduction—a young woman, walking home from work late at night, who’d kicked and screamed and ran, extraordinarily fierce and supremely lucky that her would-be abductor was pushing seventy years old. When law enforcement went to his house they’d found bodies placed around every room just so, like piece of furniture or decoration, wrapped in duct tape like some sort of fucked-up mummies. Morgan hadn’t fought, just nodded and held out his wrists for the handcuffs.

“Everything has to end someday,” he’d said.

The papers had made that a headline.

Now, slightly older, Victor Morgan regarded the two of them with bright blue eyes and put a hand to his lips. “Well, how to say this,” he said. He tapped the table space in front of David. “You look like an outdoorsman, Agent Shepherd. You fish?”

“I have,” David said.

“Well, then you’ll understand what I’m saying. Not every catch is a trophy, right? Sometimes you got to just throw them back. Some of those routes I drove, more vultures than people around to begin with. Easy enough to give a body back to the elements.”

Anger and disgust welled within David’s chest. His temper snapped. “How do you feel now? You’re seventy-three years old. You could’ve gotten away with it if you’d just laid low, but you’re going to spend your golden years in prison.”

Diarmuid shot him a concerned glance, but Morgan only smiled. “Same reason some animals eat plants and some eat _them_ , I suppose. Why they got to hunt. It’s in their nature.”

But even carnivores didn’t torture and murder for pleasure. “Vain, to compare yourself to some kind of apex predator, isn’t it?”

Morgan shook his head, his blue eyes wide. “Oh, Lord, no. Forgive me my metaphor. There’s no comparison. A grizzly can—can rip a man to shreds, can crush his skull without any effort. Wolves too. They got enough pressure in their bite to break open and eat bones. God only gave me my two hands, and I had to do my best with them.” He smiled. “But I didn’t do too bad for myself, did I?”

* * *

The drive back to their hotel was silent save the crackle of the radio. David seethed while Diarmuid rested with his head against the window. He was always gentle and calm during interviews, his voice clear and steady and soothing, but they seemed to drain the energy out of him.

Once back to their room Diarmuid made for the shower, the first step in his nightly routine before sleep. David undressed, stuffed his clothes in their small laundry bag, and climbed into the bed.

There were two beds—they always got a room with two beds, if only to exhibit the barest semblance of professionalism—but they’d long since stopped being just work partners, and now wherever they ended up there was always bed whose blankets and pillows remained undisturbed for the duration of their stay.

Diarmuid stepped out of the shower in one of David’s t-shirts, skin flushed pink from the hot water and steam and brown curls still a little damp. David opened his arms for him to comfortably curl up beside him, but his partner stayed at the foot of the bed.

Ah, that meant a talk. They had an agreement that there was no discussion of work whatsoever once they were laying together, only soft touches and sweet words and passionate kisses. David let his arms drop and sat up straight, his back against the headboard. “Mad at me?”

His partner in every way shook his head. “Never. Just worried. He got to you.”

“He did. Pissed me right the fuck off, when he called you pretty.”

“There was never anything sexual in his murders, David—“

“No, I get that, I know. I just—I hate it when they get friendly with you like that. Just talking to you like they’re—like they’re still—“

Diarmuid interrupted him with a wan smile. “Like they’re still people? Of course they are, David. Everyone is capable of doing good or evil. These men we talk to—they’ve just chosen the latter path. But that doesn’t make them any less people. It’s terrible, the things they’ve done, but they’re human through and through. That’s what makes them so frightening. That a person could to that to another. But that’s why we’re doing these interviews. To figure out what brought them down this road.”

“Amen, preacher man,” David grumbled. Diarmuid had wanted to be a priest, once upon a time. He’d even attended a seminary for two years, before finding his true calling interviewing serial killers.

Jesus, _that_ was serendipitous.

But he still liked to give an occasional sermon and David was always an agreeable listener, a completely captive audience. His partner just clucked his tongue and crawled into bed, signaling an end to the conversation. David turned off the lamp and relaxed as Diarmuid nestled into his side. “I checked the map—tomorrow we’re going to go by this diner that has really good pie.”

“That’s all diners, Diarmuid.”

“No, _really_. This one has that grasshopper pie, with the chocolate cookie crust and the crème de menthe and marshmallow filling. I want to try it.”

“Then we’ll try it. Better be good, though.”

“It’ll be _delicious_.”

He thought about teasing Diarmuid and asking him how exactly he knew it would taste if he’d never had it before, but at his partner’s gentle kiss to his cheek and soft sigh of contentment he opted instead to stay silent.

Half asleep in the dark he thought about good and evil and choices and the different paths that people went down, and then he thought about nothing but Diarmuid’s little rhythmic snores and the feeling of his soft curls against his skin.

He’d seen a lot of darkness in his time, but David thanked God that he walked his road with Diarmuid.


	7. The Mute's Husband: A Folktale - Fairytale AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fairytale AU.
> 
> Diarmuid finds a husband with the Mute. They are very happy together, but he wonders if his spouse would like a voice? The Devil makes him an offer that Diarmuid adamantly refuses, and then the Mute takes care of the Devil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final Diarmute AU Week fic!
> 
> Includes two shortened (and reworded) folktales that I like and some bits from another that I'm fond of. Tried to write it in a folktale-ish style but I think I kind of lost that at the end. In any case, hope you enjoy reading it!

By the time Diarmuid was ready for marriage he’d heard quite a few tales on how to choose one’s spouse. He was fond of the one about the flax flowers:

_Two boys, one handsome, one plain, worked in the fields sowing flax seeds. The handsome one spent his time singing and looking for a suitor, while the plain one worked hard all day. By the spring the two boys had spun and woven their flax. The little amount that the handsome boy had was ill-woven and coarse, while the plain boy had plenty of finely woven fabric._

_A golden carriage with four horses raced across their path. A prince stepped out and observed the two. He went to the handsome boy and said: “I would like to marry you, but first I want to see your handiwork. Is you linen bright?”_

_It was not._

_The prince turned to the plain boy and took his hand. “I would like to marry you. Is this your fine handiwork?”_

_Yes, it was._

_The delighted prince kissed the boy and swept him into the carriage, while the other boy returned downhearted to his village._

“Nonsense,” said Ciaran, “A prince will not go to a village to search for flax weavers to marry.”

Well, perhaps the story about the groom was test was better?

_A young man wanted to marry and was fond of three brothers, all very handsome and all whom he had known for a long time. He could not decide which to marry. His mother, noticing his conundrum, said, “Invite them all over for dinner and serve them cheese with their meal. Pay close attention to how they eat—that will tell you who will make the best husband.”_

_He did as his mother advised. He invited the three to a fine meal and served them cheese._

_The first brother ate the cheese rind and all—greedy. The second brother carved the cheese so that he missed the rind completely but included a fair amount of cheese in his scraps—wasteful. But the third brother peeled the rind clean off—a well-disciplined man._

_Thus the young man married the third brother and the two lived happily together to the end of their days._

“Ridiculous,” Ciaran said, “There’s more to being a proper husband than eating cheese.”

Frustrated, Diarmuid asked his father, “Then how will I find my husband?”

“Take the bow and arrow,” Ciaran said, “And shoot it into the air. Wherever it lands, that is where you will find your husband.”

This seemed to make as little sense as anything else, Diarmuid thought, only with an added element of danger to it. But still he took the bow, stared at it a moment, then notched the arrow, pulled it back, aimed at the sky, and released.

Father and son watched it disappear.

“Well,” Diarmuid said, nonplussed, “I suppose I should go find it.”

* * *

It was a fine day for a walk through the forest, but Diarmuid didn’t stop to pick ripe raspberries from their bushes or pluck snowdrops from the ground to decorate the house. He needed to find the arrow and along with it, his new husband. It was a bit tiring, walking for so long without rest, but Diarmuid was heartened by the thought that at the end of the day he’d have found his love.

Eventually he came upon a small clearing with a small cabin and a large man staring at the roof of it with a frown on his face. Wait, it wasn’t the roof that had his attention—it was the arrow!

Diarmuid dashed forward. “Oh, that’s mine! The arrow! I shot that!” he called.

The large man jumped, startled, and turned towards him. Ah, yes, Diarmuid recognized him now. He bit his lip to suppress a bout of gleeful laughter.

Everyone called him the Mute, now. Like many of the men in the surrounding area he’d marched off to war, and unlike many of those men he’d returned. Sans voice—he’d lost it, somewhere. It had to be very chaotic and confusing in battle, Diarmuid thought. But the Mute was so handsome, with his black hair and beard and dark eyes and broad chest and shoulders. He looked a little confused now, though, looking from Diarmuid to the arrow on his roof, but after a minute of Diarmuid staring hopefully at him he went and got a ladder to retrieve it.

“Oh, thank you! I’m so happy!” Diarmuid cried as the Mute handed him the arrow. “Do you want to meet my father first, or should I, um, get familiar with the house? I’m a very good cook—I won’t ever let you go hungry. And I’m not afraid to dress anything you’ve hunted. I still have to get some things from my father’s house, but—which side of the bed do you prefer, the right or the left?”

Up to that point the Mute had been watching him with slowly increasing bewilderment, but at this last question his face turned red—and suddenly his gaze kept flitting to Diarmuid’s lips and back to his eyes—and he put out a large but gentle hand on Diarmuid’s shoulder to indicate that he should stop speaking and explain himself.

“Oh!” said Diarmuid. “Do you know why I shot this arrow?”

The Mute shook his head. That made sense, Diarmuid thought, because he himself hadn’t even known about this particular method of marriage before this morning. A bit sheepish, he looked up to meet the Mute’s confused but soft gaze.

“I’m of age to wed. My father told me the best way is to fire an arrow, and wherever it lands is where I’ll find my husband. Um, and it landed on your house, so—“ Diarmuid fiddled with the arrow’s fletching, blushing all the while. “So will you marry me?”

* * *

His father looked conflicted. “The arrow landed at the Mute’s house?”

Diarmuid smiled. “Yes!” And what a fine house it was. His husband had made it all by himself—he was so strong and skilled and handsome.

“You’re certain?” he asked, staring at the Mute, who held Diarmuid’s smaller hand in his lovely, large, callused one.

“Daddy, it was on the roof. There’s a notch in the wood where it hit.” He turned to the Mute. “I’m sorry about that. I’ll fix it.”

But the Mute only shook his head and squeezed his hand.

As Ciaran helped him pack his things, he said, “The man cannot speak. Will you be able to communicate with him? Will you be happy?”

Diarmuid looked over his shoulder at the Mute, waiting patiently for him by the door. “Oh, yes. I think we’ll be very happy together.”

* * *

And he was right. Diarmuid was extremely happy with the Mute, who was so kind and who always woke him with a kiss and listened patiently and with a smile on his face when Diarmuid chattered as he moved about the house and the yard doing chores. Yes, it was truly wedded bliss.

But wouldn’t his husband be happier if he had a voice? After another round of passionate, very pleasurable lovemaking, Diarmuid snuggled against the Mute’s chest and pondered the matter. Could he borrow one from someone else? What would fit? His husband was so broad, so strong, covered in scars and calluses, but so, so gentle with him. There was nothing and no one quite like him, nothing that would replace his own voice.

Diarmuid asked, “What if I went and found your voice? Do you remember where you lost it?”

The Mute tensed. He sat up in the bed, lifted Diarmuid’s chin, and emphatically shook his head, his dark eyes narrowed.

“If you’re sure,” Diarmuid murmured, feeling chastened. “I just—I want you to be happy.”

His husband’s gaze softened. He took Diarmuid’s hand and brought it to his lips, kissing each of his fingertips and every one of his knuckles, and placed Diarmuid’s palm to his chest.

The Mute’s heart beat strong and steady.

“You’re happy with me?” At his husband’s somewhat bashful nod, Diarmuid rolled on top of him so that they were almost nose-to-nose. “I’m glad. You make _me_ happy. I love you.” And he planted a kiss on the Mute’s smiling mouth.

* * *

Contrary to popular belief, Hell is cold and so the Devil is always looking to trap more souls in his realm, as their wails and screams and writhing bodies are the best things to warm the place up. But, as the Devil walked about on Earth and spotted Diarmuid in his garden with the Mute’s over-sized tunic slipping from his shoulders, he thought perhaps there was a much more enjoyable way to keep himself warm throughout the long eternity.

Diarmuid started as a voice called to him. “Are you the young man who is married to the Mute?” He looked up and saw a stranger waving and walking towards him, as tall as his husband and with short, dark hair and blue eyes. Perhaps it was by his gait—he walked and moved as if unused to his body—or by the look in his eyes—they held nothing but lust and damnation—but Diarmuid knew as soon as he saw the stranger that this was the Devil.

But even so, he had been raised to be polite so he said, “Yes, sir. I am. How can I help you?”

The Devil smiled. “Ah, I think it’s I who can help _you_. I found your husband’s voice.” He held out his hand. “Why don’t you take it back? We can discuss a way for you to repay me later.”

It was indeed a voice he held in the palm of his hand, but… Could it really be his husband’s? Diarmuid wondered. It was so full of rage and fear. It didn’t seem possible. It was so unlike him. And what use would he even have for a voice like that, here in their little cabin in the forest? Let the Devil keep it.

He said, “I’m sorry, but that’s not my husband’s voice.”

“You don’t want it?”

“It’s not his voice,” Diarmuid said, firmly.

His bright blue eyes on Diarmuid’s mouth, the Devil said, “Why not take it anyway? A voice for your beloved. All I ask in return is a kiss or two.”

Diarmuid frowned. “He doesn’t need it.”

The Devil cupped Diarmuid’s cheek and ran a thumb along his lower lip. “Are you sure? Don’t you want to hear him speak? Have him whisper sweet nothings in your ear at night? How do you know he loves you?”

When he brushed his fingers along Diarmuid’s neck and over his bare shoulder Diarmuid shuddered. But still, he answered, “He tells me with his arms when he holds me tight. With his eyes, which look at me so gently.” And then, blushing, he said, “He doesn’t need a voice to use his hands and his lips and his _tongue_.”

This took the Devil aback; it seemed to Diarmuid that _he_ had lost his voice for a few moments. His blue eyes widened further when he spotted the Mute, striding purposefully toward him with an axe in hand. The man had no voice, but he still had his sight and his hearing, and he’d caught the Devil accosting his husband with _extremely_ obvious intentions.

Even the Evil One, the Father of Lies, the Devil himself was no match for a furious, protective husband. “Come now,” he wheedled, back against a tree as the Mute advanced upon him, “No need for that. Let us talk.”

But of course the Mute could not, and even if he were able he’d still have nothing to say to the Devil. His axe found its mark right in the center of the Devil’s head and the vile being shrieked and then disappeared in a burst of dust and ash and back to Hell.

Diarmuid’s husband snarled and spat on the ground. Then he dropped the axe and swept the young man into his arms.

Diarmuid pressed himself against his husband’s broad chest. “I’m okay. He didn’t hurt me. He wanted to—he said he had your voice and that he’d give it back to you for—um, if I kissed him.”

A wide range of emotions flitted across the Mute’s face, but the one that concerned Diarmuid the most was the look of shame that pulled his husband’s mouth into a frown and had him avert his gaze from Diarmuid’s.

He patted the Mute’s shoulder. “It might have been your voice once before, but it’s not a fit for you now. That voice—I don’t know the man who owned it. But I know my husband. I know that you’re gentle and kind and that you love me.”

The Mute fixed Diarmuid with a wobbly kind of smile.

“And I love you, too. I won’t ever stop,” Diarmuid assured him.

His husband brought Diarmuid’s wrist to his lips and pressed a soft kiss there. His way, Diarmuid knew, of telling him the same.

“Let’s go back inside,” Diarmuid said, “We’ve done enough work for today.” The Mute nodded in agreement.

They walked back to their cabin in the middle of the forest, hand-in-hand and smiling and with hearts full of love.


End file.
